Wizard's Fire
by LordDerrick
Summary: Harry Potter died on July 31st following his fifth year. Dumbledore has ascended to a seat of power and placed laws into action to secure his Empire. The Dark Lord Voldemort has become a haven for those willing to oppose Dumbledore. Hermione Granger is alone and a slave to a boy she once called friend. Then He rises from the dead. Super-Harry, H/Hr/DG/Other?, Dark/Harry, ADULT!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: This was spur of the moment. I thought this up as I typed it, but now a story is coming from it that I can't get out of my head. Tell me if you like it and if I should continue.**

**Wizard's Fire**

_**Chapter One**_

It was the summer after his fifth year.

July 31st to be exact.

He was sixteen.

Vernon Dursley stood over him. The Order of the Phoenix had not shown up to rescue him. They had not sent letters. He had not been allowed to send any to them. The warning on the platform meant nothing. No one showed up after the three-day deadline came and went. No one wanted him. No one cared.

The big man dribbled spit. It leaked from the corners of his mouth and stained the skin on his chin. His eyes were wide, not the normal beady dots. They were bloodshot. Mad. He was drunk. He hadn't slept. His hair stuck up oddly. His clothes were drenched with sweat. He held a bat.

Blood drenched the rounded end.

Harry Potter's blood.

The Boy-Who-Lived – the prophesied hope of the world – lay dying on the dirty wooden floor of the second story of a small home in Surrey. No one knew why except the man trying to kill him, the man who, for all intents and purposes, was entrusted with the task of protecting and providing for Harry. Of course, no one ever asked the man if he wanted Harry Potter in his home. They just thrust a burden on him. Rather, one old wizard thrust the burden on him.

Only two people should be blamed for the actions of Vernon Dursley on that July night. Vernon Dursley and Albus Dumbledore.

Two of the worst people in the world.

Unfortunately, the blame would not fall to those who deserved it most. Others would suffer for the crimes of just two. The world would burn. The heavens would fall. Humanity would be changed forever.

If only Harry Potter had been the Boy-Who-Died and not the Boy-Who-Lived. Such are the terrible truths behind prophecies.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sipped from a glass of pumpkin juice. At least, the drink appeared to be pumpkin juice. It was actually firewhiskey, a poignant alcoholic beverage popular with the young and those wishing to drown their sorrows. He was not a young man.

But no one could blame him for wanting to get drunk. They could blame him for a great many things, but the desire to drown out his worries was not one of them.

The Great Hall was packed. Every seat at the normal four tables was filled. Guests piled around additional tables, and the Great Hall had been expanded as much as the castle wards would allow. Anyone that could be there was there. Everyone who could not be there, watched from massive magical screens at different locations around the countryside.

Almost no one spoke. They waited.

Finally, after enduring the pause as long as he could, Dumbledore stood. The crowds, both inside the castle and elsewhere, breathed a collective sigh of relief. Several people were beginning to wonder if the old headmaster had finally gone mad. In truth, they would not have been far from the truth.

He was mad, just not crazy.

The great Albus Dumbledore, supposed leader of the light, stepped to the podium that overlooked the mourners. Lines etched a grim expression in his face. His age showed itself more than usual. Even still, he radiated power. Every step he took exuded confidence and control. When he spoke, the alcohol did not slur his words. His voice rang with confidence and authority. To some, they might as well have been listening to the voice of God.

"A tragic thing happened two days ago," he started. "A boy died. I will not say his name. It cannot cross my lips. Should I say his name, it will cheapen the tragedy of his death. If I say his name, people will look at the name and cry. They will ignore the boy behind it. They will not mourn the intelligent, caring, and self-sacrificing individual. They will miss the courageous, loving, and noble child on the cusp of manhood. They will see a hero and not know his true heroism."

Dumbledore paused. His eyes scanned the crowd. This was the moment. "But you are mistaken if you believe that my not saying his name is an injustice. For what did that name ever give him? Did it give him fame? Yes. But that fame gave him the scorn of the public. Did it give him power? Yes. But that power gave him the hungry attentions of politicians who only meant him harm. Did it give him friends? Yes. But all those friends but a precious few only wanted to gain from him. Did it give him happiness? No. It gave him jealousy and hatred, jealousy and hatred that he never reciprocated, no matter how terrible it grew."

The crowd leaned forward. Dumbledore resisted the urge to smile. "I am implore you to look not at the famous name but at the boy who stood in its shadow and outshined it like the sun does the moon. See the brightness that he bore and know why he died. Know that the hand of evil did not relent in the end, but he bore it anyway. Know that a muggle killed him."

A few angry mutters spread in the Great Hall; Dumbledore knew that the mutters were louder and more numerous in other places. He could practically taste their anger. Now to direct it. "Muggles, the very figures he wanted to protect from the likes of Lord Voldemort, killed him." Only a few people gasped at Voldemort's name. "And for what cause? Because he had a nightmare? Because a child disturbed their sleep? Was such an action worth it?"

Dumbledore watched. He let the words hang in the air. The people were taking the bait. Soon, his power would be consolidated. The anger would be enough to incite the crowds. An incited crowd needed a leader. As the flamethrower, he would be poised to lead them. He would carry the torch. Harry's death was a necessary investment, one that would pay off in more ways than one. He could care less about Vernon and Petunia Dursley. They did the job. That's all that mattered. Now, because of their terrible deeds, Albus Dumbledore would rise to power. He would not be Minister. No, that was not enough. They had offered it to him before. He turned it down to reach for true power. Finally, the race was almost finished. The gold sat at the end of the course awaiting his neck.

Britain would give itself to him in both body and mind.

"My friends," Dumbledore started again amidst the whispers and grumbles. "Do not hold in your anger. Do not hold in your fear. I warn you here and now that they are coming. The age of the wizard is ending. The muggles are threatening to take us by storm. Even those that send their children to our school, plan to pull away from us. They plan to steal back their children and use them against us. We must not allow this! We must save our future from the hands of the muggles who would take it as they did Harry Potter's!"

Dumbledore watched as Hermione Granger looked from her parents to him in horror. He held back a smile. Dan Granger, her father, placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder and whispered in her ear. The trio got up and began to inch their way through the aisles. Perfect.

"Even now they begin their movement against us! They try to take away our brightest!" Dumbledore yelled, pointing at Hermione and her parents. Heads snapped towards the fleeing trio. "We must not let what happened to Harry Potter happen to another!"

Molly Weasley and her children Percy, Ginny, and Ron stood up. They stepped in front of the Grangers, wands drawn. Dumbledore heard Molly say just as they had planned, "You are not taking her away from us, muggle."

Dan Granger backed up and put a protective arm around his wife and daughter. Hermione drew her wand.

"Ron, what are you doing?" she asked. Her voice shook.

Ron smiled and shook his head. "It's OK, Hermione. We are going to protect you from them. Professor Dumbledore explained how you are trapped. Come with us." He held out his hand towards her. She looked away.

Arthur, Bill, and Charlie Weasley gathered on the other side of the Grangers. Emma Granger screamed. "Watch out!"

Hermione turned too late. Arthur Weasley's disarming spell hit Hermione squarely. The wand jumped from her hand and fell into his.

The Weasley twins, Fred and George, were up in an instant, wands pulled. Spells soared at their parents and siblings. But the crowd was already too invested. Stunners, and several hexes that were definitely nastier than hexes hit them simultaneously. Now, the Grangers had several more wands trained on them. People shouted profanities at the two muggles and their daughter.

Dumbledore chose then to speak again. "You see, my friends. Not everyone will cooperate. Not everyone will follow the correct path. Not everyone will remember Harry Potter." He pointed to the prone forms of Fred and George. He had not expected them to attack their family, but it fell into his plans perfectly. "These are traitors. Traitors must be brought to the Light. They must be made to see that what we do is for the good of the world."

"P-professor, please," Hermione pleaded, tears streaming her face now. Dan had turned away from the Weasleys. He clutched Emma and his daughter to him. Hermione peered out from beneath her father's arm. "Please, you know this isn't right."

Dumbledore gave her a sad smile. He lifted his hand. The Weasleys lowered their wands. Minerva McGonagall stood up from beside him and walked from the table to the aisle where Hermione and her parent's stood. She held out a hand.

"Come with me, dear," she said in a matronly voice.

Hermione shook her head and buried her face in her father's chest. But Dan Granger saw the truth of what was happening. He knew he would die very soon. He knew his daughter had once chance of survival. He let go of his wife and bent down to look his sixteen-year-old daughter in the eyes. He took her face in his hands.

"Go with her, sweetheart. I love you, but you must go with her," he whispered to his daughter.

She shook her head, but in the next instant, Bill and Charlie Weasley had her by each arm. Dan did not try to stop them. He knew they did not want to hurt his precious angel.

"No!" she screamed in terror. She fought hard but did not break free. She struggled and struggled, but nothing she did broke their grip. McGonagall's hand fell on her shoulder.

"Calm yourself, girl. This is for the best," the Gryffindor Head of House said.

Hermione bit, spit, scratched. In the end, it did not matter.

Dumbledore stepped from the podium. His voice did not change. The magnifying spell still carried his words. "Now, our moment of judgment has come." He looked at the crowds throughout the Great Hall. Many were on their feet, but not in anger, only anticipation. They wanted blood simply for the sake of blood. They were human, evil and vile to the core. No, they were sheep. His sheep. He pointed his wand at the Grangers.

"No!" Hermione screamed. "This is wrong! Harry wouldn't-" Arthur Weasley hit her hard across the face, silencing her with blissful unconsciousness.

No one spoke up at such brutality. Dan Granger held his crying wife. He shot murderous glares at the ginger wizard, but he did not move to protect his daughter. At least she would live. That was the most important thing. He had to make sure Hermione lived. Dumbledore acted as though he did not see the exchange.

"A hero died at the hands of muggles like these. Britain! I ask you! What is your judgment! Life or death for those who would kill Harry Potter!" he yelled, finally invoking the name of the Boy-Who-Lived. The crowds, both at Hogwarts and around Britain, raged at the name. As one, almost every voice screamed the same thing.

"DEATH!"

Blood followed. It gushed from the open throats of the terrified Grangers and poured over the crowd as they rushed in to pull the muggles limb from limb. Albus Dumbledore did not move. He did not smile or frown. His face sat emotionless as the sound of tearing fleshing and snapping bone filled the common room. The Grangers could not scream as their last moments were filled with pain, but the cheering inside of Dumbledore's head made noise enough for them both.

* * *

Harry Potter did not die on July 31st.

He sat in a darkened cell on the island of Azkaban, deep in the dungeons of the prison. The guards magically sent food to him; for, it broke several rules to approach him. No one knew the I.D. of the secret prisoner. That day, however, was different. A single guard did come down to the door, though he did not look in the small flap. It would not have mattered anyway. The bruises on Harry's face, despite the magical field that kept him alive for the time being, would have kept the man from recognizing his face or seeing the tale-tell scare on his forehead.

"I thought even you should know, scum, that your life will end soon," he whispered. "We won't have a place in the world for the like of you now that Lord Dumbledore has been made the Supreme Enforcer. The Empire will see you dead soon enough."

If Harry had been capable, he would have formed a reply. But nothing came to his lips but a gurgle. His windpipe was too far damaged. Soon, his life really would slip away. In the quiet of his cell, even after the man left, he was alone.

Until then.

Through all his pain and the soft buzz of the magic sustaining him, he heard a single word cry out in a voice he knew very well.

"_Harry…" _she whispered.

Hermione. He wanted to call out to her, but he could not. He knew she was not really there. He was hearing things. Maybe it was another one of the Headmaster's tricks. _Just like the Dursleys, _he thought. A farce to draw him into the old man's trust. Another tool to use against the great Harry Potter, the puppet. No. He could not give the old bastard that satisfaction. He ignored it.

"_Harry…" _she said again, tears in her voice.

Then he saw her, as clear as if she were in the room and every light had been turned on. His eyes found her lying on a bed in a fetal position, wearing only a light blue pair of panties and hugging a pillow. Another person was in the room with her. Ron Weasley. He stood by the bed.

"_He's not here to help you. Harry's dead. You're mine now. Dumbledore promised, whether you like it or not," _Ron told her with a sneer. He was naked. His penis stood solidly erect. He moved to the bed and grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her from the pillow. _"Mudblood's are only here to service us purebloods. You will service me."_

The vision stopped. The loss hit Harry harder than any blow with Uncle Vernon's bat. Something was happening to Hermione. Ron was going crazy. He had to help her.

Harry struggled against his chains, using more energy than he had in days. He pulled. All his might focused on breaking the chains that dug into his wrists. What little strength he had was not enough. He fell against the wall, gasping desperately for air.

A shriek broke through the silent darkness. _"HARRY!"_

Hermione again. Her voice tore at his chest. His heart swelled to bursting, then something blossomed in him, something terrible. He pulled at the chains again, but this time he did not use his muscles. This time he reached inside him to the terrible something unraveling itself within him. He reached, pulled, and forced it out. Through his veins, the something raced, responding to his search. From his fingers, it poured in a massive surge of energy that blustered through the dark room. In the black darkness, he started to glow.

His skin took on a gold hue. His wounds began to fade. The cuts closed. The bruises turned yellow then disappeared. His bones snapped into place and mended on the spot. Harry stood. The chains broke like paper. He tore the links from his wrists with his bare fingers. His eyes shined green like the deepest ocean. The power stirred within him. He thought of Hermione, of her struggling as Ron pulled her towards him. He saw the redhead force his dirty cock into her mouth while laughing. He saw one friend suffer. He saw the other break every bond of trust and brotherhood. His heart tore in two and from it spilt the venom of hatred and the righteousness of love. Calling on every bit of strength and energy he possessed, even that which he did not know existed, Harry Potter ripped through the wards of Azkaban Prison…

… and appeared in a room in a part of Hogwarts he had never seen. It was painted in red. A fire roared against one wall. A large, four-poster bed sat against the opposite wall. Ron Weasley stood by the bed, his cock against the face of a crying, topless Hermione Granger. The redhead slapped her. "Suck it you stupid cunt, or I will beat you until no one wants to fuck you again!"

"Ron," Harry said, speaking clearly, his voice dangerously low. He spoke it little more than a whisper, but it cut through the redhead's yells like a knife through butter.

Ron jumped back. His eyes widened in horror. Desperately, he fumbled for his wand. "H-Harry! What are you doing here?"

"Are you surprised, Ron?" Harry asked. He did not move. Hermione was curled into a ball on the floor, trembling. She shook her head back and forth, hands over her ears. Harry could hear her muttering, "No, no, it's not real," over and over.

Ron leveled his wand on Harry. He backed against the wall. His hand pulled on a long rope by the bed. A gong sounded. "You aren't supposed to be here. Dumbledore said you were in Azkaban. He said you were going to stay there until he was ready for you to face Voldemort."

"Face Voldemort?" Harry asked, genuinely confused.

"Yeah," Ron said, nodding. "We had to do it this way, mate. We had to make Voldemort think you were dead. It was the only way Dumbledore could get the people together."

"Really?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. Surprisingly, his anger plateaued. He even felt it ease off some. He felt calmer, almost as if some had fed him a calming draught. Then he heard Hermione's whimpering again. "And what about her?"

Ron's façade broke. At Harry's mention of Hermione, the ginger frowned a disgusted frown. "She's useless, mate. I saved her from her parents and she can't even suck me off for it. I tried to fuck her, but her legs are closed tight. You want to give it a try?"

Revulsion churned in Harry's stomach. How did he ever call this monster his friend? He started over to Hermione. "She is coming with me now, Ron."

The youngest Weasley male stepped back towards Hermione, positioning himself between the girl and the Boy-Who-Lived. "I don't think so, mate. I said you could try her, but she's mine. Dumbledore gave her to me."

"Gave her to you?" Harry asked calmly, despite the rage threatening to burst from him. He had to remain calm. He had to get Hermione free. The gong was probably an alarm. No doubt, people were on their way. Maybe even Dumbledore. "She is not property, Ron."

Ron cocked his head to the side, "She's just a mudblood. Of course she is property. All mudbloods are being taken into custody, Harry. Haven't you heard Lord Dumbledore's new proclamation? They are being arrested for attempted rebellion and are to be kept and trained by purebloods to be proper wizards and witches."

Harry fed Ron a disgusted look. Dumbledore's decrees did not matter at the moment. He had to help Hermione first. "Move," he said, and reached for her.

"No!" Ron whipped his wand in a complicated pattern and shouted, "Regus emrar!"

A purple light flashed from the end of the wand and sped through the small space between Harry and Ron. Time slowed to an almost still. Harry saw each thousandth of a second go by as if it were a full minute. He watched as the energy formed and altered itself into the form of the spell's intent. Tentatively, he reached out with his on intent. He dived his will into the spell, and used his own magic to pull it apart and scatter it. The spell fizzled away. The intent vanished. The energy just became energy, joining with the flow of particles surrounding them. Time sped up.

The entire process of destroying a spell took Harry three hundredths of a second.

Harry crossed the space to Ron in almost the same amount of time. His hand struck, magnified by the power flowing in him. It collided with Ron's wrist. The bones, both tiny and large, snapped. Some splintered against the skin. The ginger dropped the wand. It rolled towards Hermione. Harry's opposite elbow followed. The tip came down across the bridge of Ron's nose. The force was not much but it made the redhead close his eyes long enough that he did not see Harry's hand soar at his throat in a diagonal chop.

Ron fell to his knees clutching his ruined throat and trying to gasp for air. Blood came up from his mouth. Harry moved to deliver a killing blow, but a voice stopped him.

"No!"

Harry's head turned to where Hermione had been curled on the floor. She was on her feet. Ron's wand was in her hand. She wore only the small blue panties. Her breasts were exposed and free. She did not seem to care. The wand she held was the only thing that mattered.

"Hermione, you know what he would have done to you," Harry said, trying to justify to her why he would kill a defenseless man.

She met his eyes with her stormy blue gaze. "I know." Her hand lifted the wand to Ron's temple. "Avada Kedavra!" She never looked away from Harry's eyes as the green light coursed over the man she once called a friend.

Ron crumpled to the floor. Dead.

The door to the room opened in a burst of activity. He did not wait to see who it was. Everyone in the castle had to be an enemy. Anyone that would keep Hermione like this had to be a traitor. He spun on his heel and reached into the core of his being, struggling to grasp the same power that had healed him at Azkaban and brought him to Hermione's rescue. It responded, wrapping itself around Harry's persona like a blanket. He forced it out, throwing his will into it and lifting his hand towards the three people who had ran through the door: Molly, Ginny, and Bill. Lightning poured from his fingers in torrents and covered their body. White-hot streaks of magic plowed over their skin, burning and melting flesh in seconds. In a matter of a few moments, all three were on the ground, mostly ash and bone. They were dead.

Harry had held his breath the entire time. The ends of his fingers were black. He held his other hand out to Hermione. "Come on."

"Where will we go?" she asked. "They killed my parents." Her voice did not hold sadness. It was as dead as the three Weasleys.

"To someone who will help us."

Hermione shook her head. "No one will help us against Dumbledore. He owns them now. Even Deatheaters have flocked to his side."

Harry closed his eyes, took her hand, and felt for the presence he knew to be in the back of his mind. His scar tingled. "There is one."

Reality twisted, time broke, the wards around Hogwarts folded, and they were gone.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers to Ron Weasley's neck. It was just a formality. She already knew he was dead. The aftereffects of the Killing Curse were written in the contorted expression of horror frozen on his face. Even had that not killed the boy, the crushed throat indicated by severe bruising on his neck and dried blood on his lips and chin probably would have. Even she would have been hard-pressed to reverse that level of damage quickly enough to save his life.

"He's dead, Lord Enforcer. Most likely cause is the killing curse, though his wrist has been broken and his neck crushed. It seems whoever did this wanted him to suffer first," the healer told the old man at her side.

Dumbledore gazed over the broken boy's body. It was a small loss. He hated the Weasleys. They were useful tools, but they could be replaced. Besides, the remaining Weasleys would be infuriated by the loss of four of their clan. It would draw them to his cause even more, even further ingratiating him to the muggle sympathizers that doubted his policies. This act of violence opened a window for him. He had not known Hermione Granger to be capable of such brutality, but he was pleased to she was. It was political gold. The propaganda possibilities alone more than made up for the loss of four Weasleys.

"All four died heros to the cause, Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall," he told the two women in the room with him. They nodded enthusiastically. He turned back to the remains of the other three Weasleys. Arthur and Charlie knelt by their corpses. Enforcers, his newest force of soldiers, waited beside them, wands ready in case Granger decided to return. He knew she would not.

It was all about appearances. He wanted every person who could to see his soldiers. They did not wear traditional robes. Black, lightweight Kevlar and BDUs covered their well-muscled frames. They wore muggle side arms on their hips in addition to two extra wands. Each carried knives for close quarter combat. Their very appearance spoke of strength and inspired fear. The people had to know that these were the men that would protect them from the muggle threat, even going as far as to use muggle weapons to do so. Who could possibly hurt them when the enforcers were doing their job?

Dumbledore walked over to Arthur and Charlie and placed a hand on one of each of their shoulders. "My dear friends, I swear to you that we shall avenge this," he told them, kneeling between them in a show of flexibility beyond his years. "Your family tried to tame a savage muggleborn that had been turned against her on kind. They died as martyrs serving the greater good. We must not let their deaths be in vain."

Arthur Weasley shuddered under the stress of his tears. He turned his head to Dumbledore, eyes swollen and red, tears leaking from them. "Tell me what to do," he spat. "I want that bitch to burn."

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Then you must come with me, my friend. You must tell the story of what has happened to the world. They must hear of the monstrous acts of the muggleborn from your own lips. They must know the horror she committed against your family."

Arthur could only nodded. Dumbledore treated him with a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder and a kind smile. His eyes twinkled in that grandfatherly way that made him so popular with his students. Of course, Arthur had been one of his students not so long ago. Arthur would trust him no matter what. The Weasleys, what were left of them, were firmly his. Well, except for Fred and George, but his enforcers were making progress in that area.

With a final pat, Dumbledore stood back up. Amazingly, not a single joint creaked. He motioned to the enforcers. "I am issuing a Class A Directive. All members of the Defense Association, known affectionately as Dumbledore's Army, will be taken into custody and brought to Hogwarts for questioning. Should they attempt to resist, you are to use any force necessary short of killing them."

The enforcers snapped their arms across their chests in salute. One spoke up. "And if their families intervene?"

Dumbledore's face grew cold. "Traitors to the Empire will suffer only one judgment. You shall carry it out as the Empire's Hand."

* * *

They stood in an empty room. There was no furniture except for a single chair. It was not ornate. The man who sat in it did not care for such things. He only wanted power, power to change the world. He had a dream. Gold did not matter in that dream.

"So what do you offer me? Why should I not kill you?" he asked the two teenagers who stood across from him. He held the one wand they had carried in his left hand. His own wand rested in his right.

Harry looked up at the snake-like man. He held Hermione tight to his side, ready to whisk her away should this not work. "I want you to teach me. Give us your protection. Make us your weapon. In return, I will give you the head of Albus Dumbledore. After that, all bets are off, but I swear my allegiance to you until that time comes. If you ask it, I shall make the world scream, just keep her safe and give me my vengeance."

Lord Voldemort, the half-blood once known as Tom Riddle, looked Harry Potter in the eye. His own pair glowed bright red. "In the end, I, too, shall betray you."

Harry nodded. "That does not matter. I want Dumbledore dead. We will face one another when the time comes."

The most terrifying dark wizard in a century smiled. "So be it. Welcome to my fold, Harry Potter."

The teenage witch and wizard bowed as one. Neither swore an oath, but their allegiances were clear. Death would come to those who stood in their death.

**A/N; Thoughts? Worth continuing? **


	2. The Setting Sun

**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns it all. I make no money from this.**

**A/N: This chapter is much darker than the last. It also gives insight into Voldemort's twisted mind. Again, I did not edit because I wanted to get this posted. Let me know if you see anything with a mistake and I will correct it. Please review at the end. It means a lot, even if it is just a yes or a no. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Two**

_**The Setting Sun**_

A green hill stretched into the sky, rising to meet the sun that cascaded over its summit in a shower of purples and oranges, lighting the night sky and taking away the breath of the two people who watched it.

Neville Longbottom leaned against the trunk of a tree. The comforting firmness of the wood against his back unearthed childhood memories of similar outings. A small smile played on his lips as he recalled a past that was not quite so complicated, a past where his darkest hauntings were just hauntings.

He stared into the sunset. A tear glistened in his eyes despite the happy memories. The tear was not from sorrow for himself. It was sorrow for what was lost. The world was different now. Change had come in a frightening wave of terror and revolution. The past was gone. The hauntings were real. Very real.

He had seen the wands they carried.

A hand touched his arm. Quickly, he blinked away the tears and turned his head. He forced the smile to stay on his face. He did not want to worry the auburn-haired girl that sat next to him. She watched him with concern in her dark brown eyes. The frown she wore did not mar her simple, elegant features.

"Are you OK?" she asked. "You got quiet."

Neville shrugged, not quite able to pass his façade beyond his expressions. He did not trust his voice, because his voice so often said what he felt, and to say what he felt now, in the current climate, meant donning the mantle of a rebel. He thought of the boy who started this chain of events and wondered what he would have done. Would Harry Potter have accepted such a burden if it meant doing what was right? He knew the answer.

Neville sighed. "I don't know, Susan. I've just been thinking." His gaze panned from her face to the picturesque view of the hillside. "All this is going away. Things were simple here. The Longbottoms have always been the Longbottoms. We took sides only when necessary. In the past decades, the sides were clearly marked. Grindelwald and Voldemort. They stood out like beacons of evil. Now, the dark seems so muddled. The ones who are supposed to serve the light are looking darker and darker. I don't know what to do."

Susan did not speak for a moment. A knot rose up in his throat. Had he said too much? Had he scared her away? The pair had been friends for years, even before Hogwarts. She was his first crush, and hopefully, she would be his last. But for a brief second, the dread of not knowing swallowed him. Why would she not say something, anything?

In the section of reality was not dominated by Neville's anxiety, only two seconds passed before Susan replied. "You really know how to treat a girl on a date," she said with a grin.

Neville stumbled over his words as his mind desperately tried to decipher the connotation in the word date. "D-date?" he asked, a blush rising to his face, all thoughts of Voldemort and Dumbledore gone.

Susan giggled and shook her head. She leaned over without so much as a hint of reservation and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You are too easily distracted."

Neville stared dumbfounded.

_Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop._

Five pops. Apparition. Neville and Susan were on their feet, wands in hands almost instantly. No one should be apparating on the Longbottom Estates. They were only expecting Neville's grandmother and she most definitely would not apparate.

Spells streaked at them. Neville managed to conjure a shield, but Susan took the first spell to the chest, an overpowered disarming spell that not only robbed her of her wand but not knocked her from her feet. Neville, stunned at seeing her fall, forgot about the shield and tried to rush to her side. Unfortunately, the people attacking were not so lax. With quick, efficient spells, they disarmed, overpowered, and bound Neville before he even reached Susan. He fell beside her on the grass, unable to move.

The demure Hufflepuff, tried to scramble away and grab at Neville's wand that lay only a few feet from her. Black clad men, not wearing robes but clearly wizards, came into view. One stepped in her path. He did not use a spell to stop her. Instead, he delivered a boot-covered kick to her face. Her nose cracked; blood splattered everywhere. As she rolled to her back, then her side, clutching her face, he trained his wand on her.

"Don't be stupid, lass. You two best come with us quietly, or I'll mess up that cute little face a little more. Everyone can use a few less teeth, even you," the man said with a pronounced Irish twang.

One of the other five men moved from the back of the group. A single, silver-colored bar was neatly stitched on the high-collar of the shirt beneath the muggle BDUs he wore. He did not have a wand in his hand, but three were in holsters at his waist. Instead, the fingers of his right hand drummed on the top of a holstered muggle handgun. He had green eyes and brown hair. A thin scar went from ear to ear, crossing his neck. The look he gave Susan and Neville did not speak of malice, only cold, efficiency. Instantly, both teens knew that this man would not hesitate to kill them.

"By order of His Excellency the Supreme Enforcer, you are hereby ordered to return with us to the Ministry of Magic. Should you resist, we will be forced to incapacitate you." His voice did not fluctuate in tone. It was brisk, precise. The command left little to be argued with. Neither Neville nor Susan wanted to test and see what would happen if they did. Still, he added a final modifier to his threat, "Permanently."

The teenagers did not reply. He took it as a sign of compliance. Looking back at the other men with him, he said, "Ready the portkeys. We have more to retrieve. Lord Dumbledore will want these personally."

The other four nodded and reached to small pockets on their pants. They each pulled out a single coin and moved to the fallen teens, two to Neville and two to Susan. The leader did the same. "Activate."

Nothing happened.

"_Wards!"_ the leader hissed. Instantly, the five soldiers moved into a defensive formation around Susan and Neville, binding the girl as they arranged themselves.

A second later, an elderly woman, tall and thin, stepped from behind a cover of trees that shielded the Longbottom manor house from view. She carried a red handbag and wore a vulture-stuffed hat. Her grandson's eyes widened in surprise, but the full-body bind kept him from shouting a warning to her. Was she crazy? Did she have any idea who these guys were? He had only heard snippets of gossip outlining the details of Dumbledore's personal army of "Enforcers." All the details painted a dangerous picture. They had disarmed both him and Susan with ruthless intensity. His grandmother, marked famously for having failed her Charms O.W.L., would not stand a chance.

Augusta Longbottom, however, did not feel quite as worried as her grandson. In fact, she felt quite calm. The only thing that did worry her was the obviously broken nose on Susan's face. The five soldiers did not give her even a slight pause.

"Now, now," the scarred leader said as Augusta came into view, "we are only taking your grandson in for question, Madam Longbottom. There is no need for us to get hostile with you, too. So long as he is loyal to the Empire, he will be returned here."

The matron of House Longbottom frowned; though, in all honesty, a frown was not much a change from how she normally looked. "Since when has the Queen's Empire detained private citizens for no cause?" she asked crisply, her voice not feeble in the slightest.

This time the soldier actually smiled. It left a lot to be desired in the way of pleasantness. "You must be confused," he said. "This has nothing to do with the Queen." With that, he drew the hand gun and fired just as the other four wizards did the same with their wands.

The matron of House Longbottom did not appear to be a very agile or strong person. Yes, her stern demeanor gave her the air of a formidable witch, but in actual size and ability, she left a lot to be desired. At least, the soldiers assumed that. No doubt, they calculated their chances of taking out an old witch nearing 100 years old to be an easy task. After all, the truly aged, with a few exceptions, were not as powerful as the exceptions such as Dumbledore. Most were relatively weak due to their decline in mental faculties.

They did not know Augusta Longbottom. If they had, they would have retreated immediately.

Neither the bullet nor the spells came close to the elder witch. They simply stopped six inches in front of her face and fell. Augusta dropped the red handbag, and revealed the wand she held in her right hand. She dispelled the dueling shield a moment later and followed with her counter attack.

She waved her wand in a heavy arc. No light came from the tip and she did not utter a word. Her feet shifted into a stronger stance. The soldiers prepared to fire again. It all took half a second. Then the world changed.

The ground beneath the soldiers buckled, throwing itself up in a ripple that looked more like an ocean wave than any naturally occurring land formation. The soldiers, along with Susan and Neville, flew. Wind followed them at unnaturally strong speeds. Tendrils of air scooped under Susan and Neville and carried them gently to the ground, but separate, more violent tendrils, buffeted the soldiers and wrapped around their bodies before slamming them into the hard dirt with enough strength that their bodies imprinted several inches.

Madam Longbottom had fought against Gellert Grindelwald. She had fought against Lord Voldemort. Both dark lords targeted her family because of the awesome power she held. Neither dared cross her in single combat. They knew.

The soldiers did not. Foolishly, they rolled to their feet, pulling spare wands and firing curses.

Deftly, the old witch dodged and twisted. She was not young anymore, but she had fought more battles in her life than these five would have ever have the opportunity to fight. She had seen horrors they only dreamed of. She waved her wand once more, and unleashed one of the most terrible of those horrors.

The soldiers tried to dodge. They tried to run. They tried to block. But the fury that fueled Augusta'a spell could not be countered. Fiendfyre, bewitched hellfire smelling of sulfur and the damned, erupted from the woman's wand and devoured the space between her and the five soldiers. Despite the armor than somewhat protected them against their fall into the earth, they died shortly after the flames consumed them. With incredible control, Augusta held the fire until not even bones were left then let it fade away.

When it ended, she was not even breathing hard. She flicked her wand, undoing the body binds that held Susan and Neville.

"Take Susan and return to the manor. Use the floo and go to your Uncle Algie's. He will help you escape," she told Neville, speaking with a tone he knew meant that he better not argue.

Her grandson only stared at his grandmother with wide eyes. "How did you do that?!" he shouted.

His grandmother's features softened for a moment, giving Neville a rare glimpse of the compassion he knew she felt. It scared him. She hardly ever showed that side. The look did not last long. A hard stare and thin frown replaced it. "Now, Neville. They will return. I will stay here and go with them. You have to go. It's you they want."

Neville shook his head. "They will kill you!" he shouted.

His grandmother stared at him, a strange glint in her eye. "They will try."

* * *

Luna Lovegood held the doll close to her with loving tenderness. She did not feel the least bit silly to be hugging a doll at fifteen years old. After all, it was a gift from her mother. Gifts from her mother were few when the woman had been alive. Luna cherished the ones that were left.

Her father, Xenophilius Lovegood, never recovered from his wife's death several years earlier. On the day it happened, after grieving in private for hours and ignoring his confused daughter, he emerged from the room that he had shared with his wife, tears streaking his cheeks, and set the house on fire. Only the interference of the Weasleys, close neighbors, saved Luna and her father's lives.

Only the doll and a small number of objects survived, so Luna cherished the doll and hugged when she felt alone, a feeling she suffered from all too often.

"Luna!"

She jerked at the sound of her father's voice. It was an angry yell. He was not having one of his better days. Some days, he would act normal and loving. Other days, he stared off, distant and cold, creating farfetched ideas of things and places. Those days were the most common. It fueled the creative articles in _The Quibbler_, a magazine he owned and operated. Today, however, was one of the rare days, one of the worst days. On days like this day, her father grew angry and violent. The day he burned the house had been one such day. Unfortunately for Luna, more often than not, she became the target for his anger… anger and other things.

Unspeakable things.

The fifteen year old witch trembled visibly. She did not want to face her father, but she knew the longer she waited, the worse things would be.

It was a sad life. The saddest was not the things her dad made her do or the things he did to her. The sadness came from the memories he had of his caring and loving, the way he once had been. She loved her father. She knew he could not control how he was. His mind no longer functioned like that of a normal person, and she understood completely. That was the saddest thing, knowing that he hurt her because he did not understand, knowing that he loved her still, knowing that she loved him and would never leave.

She could not count the number of times, she had thought of killing herself.

Then a light entered her life. She remembered the form it had come in. A boy. All he wanted to do was help her find a pair of shoes.

No one had ever offered to help her.

Harry Potter meant the world to her. He had been a beacon for her to follow, a model on how to rise from the shambles of a broken life. Even someone like Luna – she knew exactly how people perceived her – meant something to him. True compassion. Now, though, it was all gone.

Harry Potter died at the hand of a muggle.

Luna wanted to hate muggles for what they robbed from her. She wanted to hate the world for stealing her only hope. But she could not, no matter the rhetoric Dumbledore spewed. Only one person killed Harry, not a whole society.

"LUNA!"

Her father's yell snapped her from her musings. She jumped from the bed, hurried from her room, and ran down the stairs to face whatever mood or punishment that awaited her, telling herself the whole time that her father loves her.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs and enter the kitchen, she did not expect what she found. Nothing could have prepared her for the five, black-clad soldiers that waited in her kitchen or the wand they held at her father's throat. She knew in an instant that he was not angry. He was scared.

Taking another lesson from Harry Potter, she drew her wand and jumped back through the door she came from. She took off through the house. It was not large, but there was room to maneuver. The key was to separate the soldiers like they had the deatheaters in the Department of Mysteries. She had to hold them off until help…

Her mind stopped dead. There was no help. She knew who these people were.

Enforcers, hands of the Ministry of Magic or as it was starting to be known, the Empire.

The soldiers were quicker than he anticipated. She barely made it two rooms before two came from behind her while two cut her off. A spell flew from her wand, but the soldier it sped toward deflected it easily with his wand. Two spells hit her from behind and she fell to the ground, wand rolling from her hand and unable to move.

"Hmm," one of the soldiers said as they closed in, "Lovegood sure knows how to make them pretty."

Fear welled up in Luna, blinding and angry. She did her best to swallow. She had to be like Harry. If he could face Voldemort so many times, then so could she.

"Watch it, Craver," snarled another soldier, his voice deep and scraggily. "She ain't one of your muggle bitches. This, here, is a pureblood bitch. You don't fuck 'em hard."

"I bet she likes it like that," the soldier name Craver replied with a laugh. "They all like it like that deep down inside."

The other four laughed.

"Ah, shut your trap and grab her. Dumbledore wants her back at the Ministry. You can have fun later," the other man ordered, clearly the leader.

Luna felt hands grab her and lift her to her feet. A wand pressed into her back.

"Walk girl," said Craver, his breath hot on her ear. He exhaled, breathing in her scent in a way that made Luna's stomach sour. "Yummmm," he purred in her ear. "You will be good."

A loud crash stopped the men short. "Hey!" came a shout from the kitchen. Then something exploded.

The kitchen door that led to the foyer they were in blew off its hinges, a great fireball exploding through it. A second later Xenophilius Lovegood walked through, wand out, and started firing curses.

"You aren't taking my little girl anywhere!" he screamed, spells blazing from him.

Luna felt a glimmer of hope spring up. Her father was coming to rescue her!

The soldier who held Luna threw to the ground. She hit with a thud, but her eyes were on her valiant father. He loved her! She did not see the soldier who had held her pull the muggle handgun from his holster. Even if she had, she would not have known what it could do. She did, however, see the blood and bone that splattered when the bullet caved in her father's face. She did feel the warm material hit her as the last of the life seeped from her father's now broken body. She did watch as he fell.

Nothing could have prepared her for the gun or the bullet just as nothing could have keyed her into the fact that at that moment, this scene played out almost exactly the same at a dozen homes throughout Great Britain.

* * *

Harry stood on a dais in the middle of a room with black walls and only a single chandelier of light that hung overhead. Hermione stood against the far wall by a space that held no visible door though one existed in that exact spot. He wore robes, loose in the places where his arms and legs twisted to move, and lighter on his wrist and arms. Hermione wore similar attire.

Across from Harry towered the imposing figure of his arch-nemesis, the man who had killed his parents, orchestrated the death of his godfather, and repeatedly raped his mind. At the moment, he was Harry and Hermione's only ally.

When Harry imagined Voldemort, it was always a picture of a horrible monster that rose to his mind. His most potent memory of meeting the Dark Lord came from the end of his fourth year when he watched an infant shelf be thrown into a cauldron of bubbling potion and rise again as a grown, snake-like horror of death. In the past few days, since joining with Voldemort in what turned out to be Malfoy Manor, Harry had seen a new side. One he did not like.

The most feared dark wizard in history stood across from him now, wand raised and pointed at him. Harry did not move. He stood calmly. Hermione tensed beside him.

"Prepare yourself, Harry," Voldemort said, eerily echoing the mannerisms of Severus Snape.

_Without a wand… Right. How am I supposed to fight one of the most powerful wizards in the world without a wand?_

Voldemort barely moved, a flick of the wrist, hardly noticeable, and a very ominous looking spell sped towards him. The Dark Lord did not do things in halves. Harry had no doubt that the spell racing at him would either kill or seriously harm him. He dug for the energy inside that helped him block Ron's spell and break out of Azkaban. Nothing. No power surged forth. No ancient source of energy rose to meet him. Desperately, Harry dug; finally, at the very last second, he had no choice but to leap out of the spell's path. It stuck the wall behind him, blowing chunks of black stone through the room. Instantly, the hole repaired itself.

"Pathetic," Voldemort said. "You have to use your anger. Stop focusing on spells! Will your thoughts to become reality! Fuel them with your rage!" The tone in his voice did not carry anger, but it was thick with disappointment. Harry, surprisingly, felt mildly ashamed. When did that happen? Was he actually starting to care what the Dark Lord thought of him? _Wow, the tables are turning._

Hermione jumped off the wall she waited against and rushed to Harry's side. Voldemort waved his wand again. An invisible hand caught Hermione around the middle and threw her to the other side of the room. She did not land gently against the wall.

"Now, now, Miss Granger," Voldemort said, waving and admonishing finger. "We must let Harry learn on his own." His red eyes glowed. "In fact, I think you might have presented me with a very good idea."

Voldemort turned back towards Harry and pocketed the wand he held. "You are limited. The wand we wizards use is both a blessing and a curse. To some it helps, to others it hinders. You, I believe, are the latter."

Harry struggled to his feet, pushing aside the dull throb that was starting in the shoulder he rolled on. "What do you mean?" he asked, refusing to end his question with the stylized 'my lord' that Voldemort's other followers were in the habit of using. Harry was not a follower. He was an ally.

Voldemort ignored the lack of respect in his apprentice's voice. "You were able to heal yourself, break out of Azkaban, and break through the wards of Hogwarts. You do not see how this is odd?"

Harry shrugged. "I've seen both you and Dumbledore do similar things."

"Exactly." The Dark Lord smiled, thinly. "And how did Dumbledore and I do things that should have been impossible? How did we breach impenetrable wards?"

"Because you are powerful," Harry told him. Where was Voldemort going with this? Everyone in Britain knew that Dumbledore and Voldemort were two of the most powerful wizards in modern history. No one was surprised at the fact that the Dark Lord and the Headmaster could achieve what others thought to be only impossible.

Voldemort, however, shook his head at Harry's answer, clearly not satisfied. "You are looking at it from a narrow view." He raised both his hands. A glow surrounded them. "My hands are all the magic I need. The wand means nothing. The term 'power' means nothing. The only thing that matters is these hands and what I will do with them."

Voldemort turned his hands towards Hermione. The glow expanded. "The question, Harry, is what I will do with them." The glow collapsed and narrowed with incredible speed, faster than Harry could clearly see. Then, with an intense hiss, it shot from Voldemort's fingers as a ball of red energy and sped towards Hermione.

Just like it had when Harry faced Ron in Hogwarts, the world slowed down around him. Time altered itself and allowed Harry to see the ball of energy for what it was, focused energy. This time, when he dug inside himself, he found the power he was missing before. Fueled by his anger at Voldemort's betrayal and concern for Hermione's life, Harry launched every bit of himself at the spell. His own will collided with Voldemort's will, tearing the red spell to pieces and pulling apart the fibers that turned the Dark Lord's intent into reality.

When time sped back up, the Dark Lord was clapping. "Good. Very good."

Harry looked from Hermione to the Dark Lord and raised his own hands. "You could have killed her."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, rather he raised the spot where his eyebrow would have been had there actually possessed eyebrows. "No, Harry. Had you not intervened, I would have killed." Voldermort let the question hang in the air. "You see, Harry, there are things you do not understand about magic. That term you just used, 'power,' means nothing. No wizard or witch is stronger than another. You and I are just as powerful as one another."

The Dark Lord pulled out the wand once more. Harry tensed. "Why do you ready yourself for battle now?" Voldemort asked. He pointed at Hermione. "Did you not just see that I am capable of striking down without the use of a wand?" He took the wand in both hands and pulled down, effectively snapping the wooden focus into two parts.

"You see," he said, letting the pieces drop to the floor, "I do not need it. You are the same. This focus is just that, a focus. We have the power inside of us the whole time, but the wand gives us a point to rely on. It narrows our thoughts so that our intent has the proper tool to make our magic real."

Harry wanted to argue with Voldemort. Every taught him the exact opposite. The wand meant everything to the wizard. _The wizard is only as good as his wand._ But as much as he wanted to argue, he knew without a doubt, that Voldemort was right. How many times had he used wandless magic as a child with Dursleys? Only a few seconds ago he used wandless magic to stop a spell. He shook his head. "Then I am just as powerful as you," he said boldly.

Voldemort laughed. "No, boy. If power works that way, do you really think that the most feared Dark Lord in the world is only as powerful as a sixteen year old child? Are you the heir of Merlin? No! You are a child. Not only a child, but a child of a halfblood and pureblood! Are not purebloods the only strong wizards?"

Harry started to argue, but Hermione beat him to it. "You bigoted bastard," she yelled, pulling up Ron Weasley's own wand. "You are a halfblood!"

He expected the Dark Lord to fire off a spell in response to Hermione, but Voldemort didn't even look angry. In fact, he looked pleased. "Yes, Miss Granger you are correct. And what separates me, one of the supposedly most powerful wizards to ever live, from say Lucius Malfoy, a pureblood, or you, a muggleborn?"

Hermione's eyes lit up as if she had just figured out the answer to the problem. "Nothing," she said, her voice breathless. "We are the same."

Voldemort's smiled deepened. "You are almost to the truth with that. You see, Harry," he said, turning back to the Boy-Who-Lived, "We are no different than one another. Blood is just a word. And why is that Miss Granger?"

Hermione was slumped against the wall looking dazed. "Because magic is just a word," she muttered in shock.

Voldemort nodded. "Yes, because magic is just a word, a word for a science that muggles have yet to understand." He paused, his eyes boring into Harry's. "Magic is nothing more than the power of thought, concentrated and manifested in a single act of will. It is energy, pulled together by a witch or wizard's thoughts, and altered to achieve a purpose. It is, put simply, our ability to change the physical world with the power of our thoughts, an ability that every human in the world possesses. Genetically – yes, I am a student of genetics and biology – we are all the same species. Overall, there is nothing different between me and a common muggle."

Harry stared at Voldemort in disbelief. "But that would mean…"

The most feared dark lord in modern history, known for his hatred and prejudice, nodded. "Yes, all humans are magical. It took me several years to discover this. Most people believe that I spent my years out of Hogwarts gaining a following, but in truth, that did not take much effort. People flock to a person willing to give them what they want. The purebloods saw that in me because I wanted to. No, I spent those years learning more than most wizards ever learned. Science and technology called to me. I even learned to control my power so that it does not affect electrical technology."

Harry tried to come to terms with what Voldemort was telling him. It couldn't be true. Wizards and witches were special. Muggles don't have magic. They just don't. He shook his head and closed his eyes. He was different. Different from them all. Different from the Dursleys! _I'm not like them!  
_

"I can see you are having trouble," Voldemort replied. He waved his hand at the invisible door Hermione stood by. "Allow me to help you."

The door opened with a distinct _whoosh! _Two deatheaters, black robes and white masks adorned, entered. Between them, they pulled a young woman wearing tattered jeans and a green t-shirt. She had blonde hair and dazzling, vivid blue eyes that were clearly lost in both pain and despair. Tears brimmed the edges.

Harry clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. He knew this would be part of it when he joined Voldemort. To achieve the bigger picture, he had to sit back and watch. For the time being, they needed Voldemort. He could not act. His eyes found Hermione's. They spoke to each other wordlessly. They both said the same thing to each other.

_Wait._

He hated himself for it.

Voldemort picked up on Harry's reaction. "I see how you reach out to her, Harry. It makes your weakness obvious. You want to protect everyone. You do npt see the necessity behind my actions."

"What's necessary about torturing a girl?!" Harry yelled.

"Yes, what would be necessary about that?" He looked at the deatheaters. "Leave us." They complied immediately.

Voldemort walked over to the girl who stood in the middle of the room, trembling. "Kneel, girl." She knelt without a word. He stepped behind her and placed his hand behind her head, stroking her bright hair. "If I know that muggles have the same potential as we do, why would I kill them? Miss Granger, I am sure you can answer."

Hermione shook her head. "But it can't be right. Magic has no place in science. It just isn't-"

He raised his hand, stopping her. "If it has no place, then why does it exist. Science is the key to understanding the universe. I believe this wholeheartedly. However, modern muggle science does not account for magic. It ignores our abilities as legend and lore and blind themselves to the obvious. How many miracles have you heard of occurring? How many predictions of the future and premonitions have come true? Have not cancer patients been cured simply by people praying for healing? All these point to the same thing."

He knelt beside the girl and whispered in her ear. She raised her hand in front of her. He closed his eyes and placed his hand on her head. Tentatively, voice shaking, the girl whispered, "Avada Kedavra."

A wash of green light spread from her fingertips and hit the wall. The wall exploded.

Harry stared at the girl. "Is she a muggle?"

The Dark Lord nodded. "Yes, a muggle who cast the Killing Curse."

The implications were staggering. The world would change. Everything was different now that Voldemort had made this discovery. He could leak the information and change the world. Dumbledore couldn't start his war on muggles if it turned out they were not actually muggles. Everyone was the same.

Then it dawned on him. Voldemort killed muggles. He knew they were magical and killed muggles.

"Why? Why would you kill them? Pureblood dogma means nothing, now."

Voldemort nodded. "Yes, you and I know that. In history, others have known that. We use wands to focus our concentration. Our ability to focus our intent gives us the ability to do what muggles cannot do normally. None of us actually have to used wands. After all, they are only wood mixed with animal parts. We do accidental magic all through our childhood. Purebloods manifest it almost always because they are expected to. They grow up knowing that they can and so they are able to focus their intent easier. A few muggles follow the same pattern; your friend, Miss Granger, is one such example. The muggles who use accidental magic become our muggleborn wizards and witches. There is an entire department in the Ministry devoted to detecting accidental magic by muggles. You have probably heard of them. The Unspeakables use modern technology, muggle not magical, to detect muggle magic use.

"But just as there is a department that detects magic use, there is a department that prevents it. The Misuse of Magical Artifacts Office originally did not exist to prosecute wizards and witches for cursing muggles. It was created to prevent muggles from discovering magical items and figuring out how it worked. Modern science has progressed further in the past few years than in all the years humans have been on earth. How long would it take them to figure out magic? How long would it take them to discover our society and try to thrust their world on us, destroying everything we wizards and witches hold dear? That is why I persecute them.

"I want muggleborns to fear entering this world. I wish to severe the link between human science and magic. If I do not, if muggleborns are allowed to take our secrets into the scientific world, pureblood society will collapse. Many people will die. Our society will end." Voldemort sighed and looked down at the muggle girl. He stroked her hair with his hands. "I cannot allow this. My people must be allowed to survive. Wizards and witches can never stand against an entire society of muggles who know of magic and are able to harness it. Hundreds of years of technology separate us. Most purebloods, and many halfbloods, would die. If I need to, I will kill every muggleborn on earth, every muggle parent of the muggleborns, and every muggle ever born if it means that my people will survive."

Harry stared dumbstruck at Voldemort. All this time, all the atrocities, and it turned out that Voldemort was a patriot that was willing to sacrifice everything for wizard kind? Finally, Harry understood why people were attracted to him. His charisma was blinding, so blinding that Harry almost believed the propaganda.

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, "he's right."

Harry's head turned so quick, his neck almost snapped. "What?!"

She looked at him, shock written across her face. "It's true. Humans, especially non-magical humans, have always acted violently against that which they did not understand. It would be genocide. They would kill everyone of us."

Voldemort nodded, smiling. "You are the brightest witch of your generation, Miss Granger." He looked at Harry. "It doesn't matter if you believe me or not, Harry. The world is changing. Eventually, muggles will discover us despite my efforts. At that time, we must be ready. Dumbledore wishes to rule the muggles. In the process, he will expose us all before preparations have been made. We will all die. We have to stop him. That is the important thing now, but to do that, you must learn to let go and focus your intent, to use your power without flaw. Dumbledore cannot be defeated any other way."

Harry nodded numbly.

Voldemort left the girl and walked over to Hermione. He took the confused girl by the hand. "Are you alright, my dear?" he asked, using charm that was almost sickening.

Hermione nodded.

"That's good. Then you will not mind." He took her hand and pulled her roughly into his arms, twisting her in his arms until her back was pressed against his chest. He brought a hand to her throat. A knife appeared in his hands.

Harry rushed at them, but he didn't get close. A wall of force hit him like a sledgehammer, throwing him hard on his back.

"Harry, Harry. Have a little faith," Voldemort said. "I am not going to kill her. Not yet. The test has not been taken."

"Let her go!" Harry yelled, trying to force himself against the wall.

"What's the matter? Are you a wizard or are you not? You forced down the wards of Azkaban Prison but you cannot get through my wards."

Harry tried. His anger raged. Blood rushed in his ears. The power welled up inside him once again. He reached for it and pushed every ounce of it against the invisible wall. It fizzled out to nothingness. He sank to his knees, beating his fist against air. Helpless. Useless. Nothing he did worked.

"Ah, but Harry, there is a way you can save her." Voldemort pressed the knife slightly in Hermione's neck. A drop of blood pushed out around the knife. Hermione's eyes were wide, frozen in fear. She dared not move for fear of the knife digging in deeper.

"No, please!" Harry screamed. "I will do anything. Just take the knife a way." It wasn't a lie. As he looked at Hermione, knife to her neck, he knew he really would do anything to save the woman… the woman…

The woman he loved.

He would do anything.

"I thought you might say that," Voldemort hissed, all the charm gone from his voice. The persona of the terrifying Dark Lord came back. The room darkened. The torches that lined the painted black walls faded. "Kill the muggle."

"What?" Harry asked, his stomach sinking.

Voldemort pressed the knife deeper. Blood flowed quicker. "Save her by killing the muggle girl."

Harry looked over at the girl. She was still on her knees, practically lifeless already. It would be so easy. Just say the spell. End her life. Save Hermione. The girl probably had a horrible life in the deatheater compound. He would be saving her pain.

"Harry, don't," Hermione managed whisper. His head turned back to her. Voldemort had lifted the knife enough to allow her to speak. "Please don't. She hasn't done-" The knife pressed back against her throat.

"Choices, choices. Who will you listen to, Harry Potter? Will you save the muggle girl or the woman you love?"

Harry's chest tightened. His breathing changed. He recognized the feeling. Panic. _No!_ The feeling didn't go away. The more he watched the knife draw blood from Hermione's throat, the more he knew what he would do. He could not let her die. In a few short days, when the rest of the world thought him dead, she became his whole existence. Fuck the wizarding world. He needed Hermione.

He summoned the energy to him once more. It wasn't enough for what he wanted to do. Only once curse would be painless to the muggle girl. He didn't want her to suffer the way the Weasleys did when he burned them to death. This was not about vengeance or protecting himself from pain. This was a necessity brought on by an evil man. He did not want to do it.

But he did.

Fueling his energy with his most common emotion, Harry raised his hand. The anger and rage rushed through him, funneling from his brain to the rest of his body. He saw the Dursleys. He saw Vernon's bat. He saw Dumbledore clasping bindings on him despite his injuries. He heard the aurors in the prison taunting him. Most of all, he saw Voldemort holding the knife to Hermione's throat.

He closed his eyes…

He took a breath…

_Avada Kedavra._

The words never left his lips. They did not cross into the realm of mental images to the world of reality. But the wave of green still spread from his fingers. It was not a narrow beam of energy. It was a sheet of power that plowed through the air and struck the defenseless muggle like a freight train. Her eyes never closed. He saw the life leave them. He watched her fall. He felt the death.

It was over.

In the background, piercing both his remorse and his anger, he heard the cackling laughter. Then, "Well done, Harry. Well done, indeed."

Everything thing went black, but it was not the black of unconsciousness. It was the black he made. The torch fires blinked out. The wall between him and Hermione crashed down with and audible crack. He turned. His flesh emitted a light, pale but pulsing; it lit the space in front of him. An outline came into view: Hermione and Voldemort, knife still pressing against the girl's neck. He lashed out.

The knife jumped out of Voldemort's grasp and embedded itself in the floor. Energy spun through the room, grabbed Voldemort by the arms, and tossed the Dark Lord away. The floor beneath where he landed rose up, grabbing him around the chest and arms, pinning him to the ground.

Harry ran to Hermione, pulling her into his embrace. "It's ok," he whispered. "I've got you." She was crying.

She did not return his embrace.

When he felt her go rigged in his arms, he pulled back and cupped her face in his hands. "It's OK, Hermione. We're leaving. I won't let him hurt you again."

Hermione shook her head, tears still falling. "No!" she screamed, yanking her head free and stepping forcefully out of his reach. "You killed her! What had she done to you?! You killed her!"

Harry stood there stunned. "He was going to kill you if I didn't."

Hermione looked up, anger like a fire on her face. "I'm not worth that! You killed her to save me. I'm a witch! I knew what I was getting into when I came here. She didn't! She didn't know! She was defenseless!"

Harry took a step forward, but Hermione held up a hand. This time, it held the wand she had stolen from Ron. _Didn't Voldemort take that? _"Get back, Harry. Stay away from me."

"But Hermione, I-"

"Get back!" she cried.

A stinging hex hit him across the face. "Go away!"

She turned and ran from the room, the magical door opening then sealing behind her.

Harry ran after her. He made it two steps.

A hand grabbed him and yanked him backwards. He lost his balance and fell to the ground. Quick reflexes born from years of trying to catch the golden snitch helped him to curl into a ball, roll his body over, and jump back to his feet. He lifted sent bolts of the same white-hot energy he used against the Weasleys at the place the hand grabbed him. The bolts hit nothing, but another hand came from nowhere and collided with his gut. He doubled over in pain. Another blow hit his chin.

Harry fell again. This time he did not get up right away. The room spun. A wave of nausea hit him. Desperately, he looked to the pin Voldemort. The Dark Lord was gone. A bright red spell shot from the shadows and struck his shoulder. Pain wracked every never in his body all at once. A thousand needles dug deep into his muscles. His limbs convulsed. _The Cruciatus Curse._

Suddenly, the torches sprang back to life. This time, the whole room lit up, exposing every corner. Voldemort stood once ore upon the dueling dais, a new wand pointed at Harry.

"Harry, Harry. You disappoint me," he said silkily. "Did you think I would allow you to defeat me so easily? Did you think I would not fight? Oh, my dear boy, you were wrong." A fresh wave of curse spilled out of Voldemort's wand, adding a new wave of pain to Harry's body. "And you are a fool. A fool with a weakness. I exposed that today. Your world has been shattered. You killed to save the love of your life, but she spurned your love. She hailed you as a monster."

Voldemort stepped closer. Through the pain, Harry barely registered his words. He definitely could not concentrate enough to fight back. "Now, you know what it is like. You see the pain the world causes me. I love my people, but they spurn me and call me a monster." He knelt by Harry's side, not releasing the curse but grabbing him by the chin and forcing the pain-filled eyes to see him. "And now, you feel the hopelessness, the anger. You see the tool to make your power grow. But most of all, you know that you are not yet powerful enough."

He slammed Harry's head back against the floor. Harry barely felt it through the pain of the Cruciatus Curse. "There will come a day when you are strong enough to break from me." He ran a single finger across Harry's cheek. "But for today, you are mine."

Voldemort stood and walked back to the dais. He raised his wand again. "Do not forget something about me Harry. I might have noble desires for this world, but I am still the most evil man you will ever meet."

Fire erupted within the Boy-Who-Lived, terrible flames of pain greater than any pain he'd ever felt, and try as he might, he could not make them stop.

"As far you should be concerned, I am God."

**A/N: Tell me what you think. This chapter held a lot more drama. I promise that Harry will have his vengeance. Please review and tell me what you think.**


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